


It Was Bound to Happen; One Night It Did.

by MyEvilTwin (ProtoNeoRomantic)



Series: Blood Screaming [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: 40 shades of rape (Yes 40-No not 50), Anal Sex, Backstory, Biblical References, Dark, Disturbing Disorienting and Uncomfortably Arousing?, Dream Sex, Dreams and Nightmares, Episode: s02e17 Passion, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Necrophilia, Oral Sex, Other, Prophetic Dreams, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Guilt, Statutory Rape, Vaginal Sex, Vampire Sex, Vampires, Weirdness, What Doesn't Kill You Can Still Seriously Mess You Up, What Have I Done, What Was I Thinking?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 06:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1257034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtoNeoRomantic/pseuds/MyEvilTwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"...Well it was bound to happen and one night it did<br/>Papa came home and it was just us kids<br/>He had a dozen roses and a bottle of wine<br/>If he was lookin' to surprise us he was doin' fine<br/>I heard him cry for Mama up and own the hall<br/>Then I heard a bottle break against the bedroom wall<br/>That old diesel engine made an eerie sound<br/>When Papa fired it up and headed into town</p><p>Well the picture in the paper showed the scene real well<br/>Papa's rig was buried in the local motel<br/>The desk clerk said he saw it all real clear<br/>He never hit the brakes and he was shifting gears."</p><p>~Garth Brooks</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Criminal Acts

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Lady's Choice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1223416) by [ProtoNeoRomantic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtoNeoRomantic/pseuds/ProtoNeoRomantic). 
  * Inspired by [Who Do You Think You Are?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1235281) by [ProtoNeoRomantic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtoNeoRomantic/pseuds/ProtoNeoRomantic). 



> The main plot of this story is contemporaneous with Chapter 1 (One Night of Passion) of Lady's Choice in the All Things Proceed from Passion Series and fits between the factory parking lot scene and the Jenny's grave scene of BtVS s02 e17 (Passion).
> 
> For more information on Canon Compliance/Divergence and Story Mechanics and Themes, see series description.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Xander and Cordelia experience the joy of love, Buffy and Giles find themselves falling from the clarity of hatred into the ecstasy of grief. But they aren't the first to see the violent side of passion.

Sunnydale, CA, February 20, 1998

Buffy slapped Giles hard in the face, hard enough to knock him to the ground. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?!” she demanded, beside herself with rage and fear. Tears streamed down her face. 

Reeling from the shock of the blow, struggling to master his own anger and humiliation, Giles tried to get to his feet. Buffy stopped him at his knees, kneeling beside him, pulling him into her arms with the ferocity of a mother snatching her child from a busy street. 

Rupert felt like a child. Like a fool. Like an un-man. A damned damsel in distress, in need of heroic rescue. But Buffy’s voice took on a quavering, forlorn tone as the enormity of what she had prevented seemed to strike her. “You can’t leave me!” she wailed, suddenly, desperately a child herself, clinging to him, seeking his strength, his protection. “I can’t do this alone!”

They clung together, melted together, sinking to the ground, sobbing, their faces pressed against each other, needing contact, needing to be closer than it was physically possible to be, to draw strength from each other that neither alone possessed.

Suddenly, impulsively, Giles pulled Buffy into his arms and kissed her. Her mouth opened to his like a revelation, the two becoming a single intimate space in which their tongues caressed each other, drunk with the ecstasy of crossing and recrossing the hazy boarder between the inside of his body and of hers. With something that was somehow both delight and horror he realized she was kissing him back. 

Giles slid his hands down Buffy's back and grasped her buttocks kneading and caressing them as he pulled her body tighter against his, groin to groin, thigh to thigh. The few meaningless layers of cloth that separated them were damp with the sweat of desire. He could feel her breasts rising against his shirt front, and he was certain she could feel his cock rising against her as well, flesh swelling with passion that ached to be expressed.

The alarm bells of guilt, fear, honor, grief, even of compassion that rang out in Rupert's soul were distant, muted, drowned out by the louder rush of blood in his ears and the pounding of his heart. Conscience reproached but could not restrain him. 

He pressed forward so that he was slightly less beside Buffy, slightly more atop her, sliding his greedy hands under her shirt to squeeze her firm breasts, rubbing her hard nipples through her bra, wanting desperately to taste them, knowing he must not. Half dreading and half longing for the eventual, inevitable moment when she would stop him, refuse him, reprove him, he fumbled with her shirt buttons, fingers shaking. 

Taking her hands from his hair, Buffy pulled her shirt hurriedly over her head, as anxious to be rid of it as he was. Her bra was a front clasp design. It opened easily, spilling her soft, round breasts into his trembling hands. He put his mouth to her nipples, teasing them with his tongue, suckling and caressing first one breast then the other.

Buffy made a noise between a gasp and a sigh. She clung to him almost painfully, pulling him more fully atop her, parting her thighs so that he now lay between them. She unbuttoned his shirt and helped him out of it, all the while kissing and caressing his face and chest, then reached to unbuckle his belt. 

This had gone far enough. Too far, he realized, as one realizes that twilight has deepened inexorably into night. “This is impossible,” he murmured. But the impossible was rapidly becoming inevitable. The already strained connections between reason and action were being broken. All he wanted now was to get his cock out.

Buffy seemed to have the same agenda. Her hands were groping for his fly. His found their way inside her waistband where they were distracted from the task of undressing her by the irresistible proximity of her hot moist, cunt. He rubbed her through her slightly damp panties, then slid a hand inside them stroking her outer lips, rubbing them against each other, pleasantly tormenting himself with the delayed gratification of entering that sacred space.

Buffy was doing a better job of staying on task. She had his trousers off and was wriggling out of her slacks, despite his being somewhat in the way. He pulled her underwear off at last and collapsed atop her, flesh to naked flesh. His huge hard cock lay along the length of her thigh. “Oh my God!” she gasped wonderingly, caressing it with her hand, making him gaps in return.

“Please,” he breathed, the only fragment of a thought he could find a word for.

“Yes,” she murmured against his ear. “Oh _God_ yes!”

At that moment, with such an invitation, all the alarm bells in the world could not have stopped him. He pushed his rock hard cock into Buffy’s soft, wet cunt, burying it to the hilt in one long, easy stroke. Buffy gasped again. Sharply, as if taken by surprise. Though, surely, she must have known what was coming. Or had she? At any rate, she wasn't complaining.

Somewhere in the distant, foggy realm where his thoughts still resided, Giles was as shocked as Buffy seemed to be, but it didn’t make any difference. The knowledge of the lines he was crossing, had now crossed, was a distant static, like the pop and crackle of a vinyl record, which intrudes upon the music but takes nothing from it. 

Buffy inhaled sharply again and began to moan with pleasure as he moved deep within her, rhythmically varying the length and speed of his strokes to match the ever more rapid rhythm of their two beating hearts.

~~~~

Xander’s heart was hammering so hard, it threatened to jump right out of his chest. The back seat! There could be only one reason why Cordelia wanted to move to the back seat. They could kiss all night long in the front seat. They could grope pretty good in the front seat too. 

For the last two months, they had been to second base and sometime even to third in Cordelia’s front seat two or three times a week. In the front seat, he had explored her bare breasts with his hands and mouth until he could feel and taste every inch of them vividly from memory. In the front seat, she had wrapped her hands around his cock, stroking it gently until he came all over the glove box. In the front seat, he had reached tentative, longing fingers into deep, forbidden places never before touched by the hand of Xand. 

Now they were moving to the back seat!

“You lay down first,” Cordelia advised, seeming happy and relaxed. “I’ll lay on top of you. It’s harder to shift around when we’re both back there.” Xander nodded and managed to grunt in what he hoped was an affirmative tone as he lay his head on an arm rest and positioned his back as flat against the leather seat as possible. “Now,” Cordelia all but purred as she swung fluidly through the doorway and eased herself down onto him, “This is a little more... relaxing.”

Xander felt anything but relaxed. His skin was humming with anticipation, but his chest was tight with something akin to dread. Needing to act swiftly, afraid of losing his nerve, he grabbed the back of Cordelia’s head, pulled her face close to his and kissed her passionately.  

He did relax, just a little then. Kissing felt good and normal and exciting in a familiar, manageable way. Sliding his hands under Cordelia’s shirt, holding her bra clad breasts in his hands felt even better. When she knelt over him, pulled her shirt over her head and reached behind her back to unhook her bra, spilling her boobs across his chest as she poured her body fluidly against him; that felt better still. 

Leaning her backward slightly, so that he could rise a few inches off the seat, Xander began wriggling out of his own T-shirt, keeping his mouth in contact with Cordelia’s face and chest until the last possible second before pulling it over his head, briefly separating them. They fell back against the seat, both bare from the waist up now, flesh to flesh.

While their mouths were busy licking and slurping this exposed flesh, their hands were free to go questing for still hidden treasures. Xander slid his hands under Cordelia’s skirt and rubbed his hands over the cool smoothness of silky panties filled to the shape and firmness of her tight round buttocks. Cordelia sighed happily, rubbing her pelvis against his. Inside his jeans, his dick twitched in response. Gently sliding a hand between them, she rubbed it through his clothes, making it harder. Xander’s heart was hammering again, but this time in a good way, mostly.

With steady, practiced hands, Cordelia undid Xander's fly and slid his jeans and briefs down. His hands trembled as he pulled her skirt and panties down exposing her neatly trimmed triangle of pubic hair, not so much a bush as a topiary. Hopefully not the kind that would come alive and attack you like the ones in _The Shining_. 

Once again their bodies fell together in the cramped space, both naked now except for the tangle of clothing around Xander’s calves and feet, making him feel bound in a deliciously naughty way as Cordelia roamed freely over him.

~~~~

London, UK, February 20, 1925

Peter struck her. He had stricken her. In the face. As hard as she had stricken him. Harder. And with as much sting of self-proclaimed entitlement, challenging her claim to the high ground. For a long, stunned moment Helena could make no sense of this physical fact, nor of his verbal response to her indignant declaration that he could be damned and have nothing for it. 

“Oh, Dear Lady, I intend to!” he had shouted. “That is _exactly_ what I intend to do!” Even between scholars and intimate friends steeped in the same arcane points of reference, it was a tortured double entendre, stretched on a rack with one end anchored in the sixteenth century. Helena stood blinking at it stupidly, like a cow that’s been struck on the head and hasn’t wit enough to know that the next blow will come from the ax. Peter was being ironic. Sarcastic. But he wasn’t joking.

He punched her hard in the face, much harder than the first time. In all the years she’d been sparring with Peter, Helena suddenly realized, he’d been playing, treating her with kid gloves, politely pretending he had to _try_ to match her. He wasn’t playing now. 

As she reeled from the second blow, he threw her to the ground and climbed on top of her. She tried to push him off, to stand. He pushed back hard, banging her head against the floor. He held her down, the weight of his body doing the major work of keeping her immobilized, his hands around her throat, choking her superfluously, for spite.

“Gods and Demons! Peter, this is madness!” She pleaded reproachfully when he took his hands away and let her breathe again. She tried again to rise. Again he pushed her roughly to the floor. His release of her throat had not been an act of mercy. He was not coming to his senses. He merely needed the use of his hands. 

He pushed her skirt up. Helena’s heart nearly stopped. “Goddamnitstop!” she shouted desperate with anger and distress and affronted dignity, tugging at the hem of her flimsy, ineffectual garment. Neither a talisman nor a shield, it could not protect her.

Peter pulled her hand from the fabric, bending her wrist back at a bad angle. Bones and tendons strained painfully against one another. “You Bastard!” Helena cursed bitterly, resenting the trimmer in her voice and her copious angry tears. Peter ignored her, his relentless hands groping up her thighs pulling at her underthings. 

For the first time in her life, Helena wished she were wearing a corset. She wished it fervently, almost badly enough to be the kind of woman who would wear one. But Peter was a seasoned fighter, and he was attacking her in deadly earnest. He would not have been defeat by a corset.

Suddenly, the pressure with which he held her lessened. For a moment it seemed he was backing off, responding at last to her pleas and reproaches. Yet again, she tried to rise, feeling a tentative swelling of unsteady relief and appalling gratitude. Peter swiftly crushed her misbegotten hope, knocking her back to the floor one handed with only modest effort. His other hand was at his belt, busily unbuckling and unbuttoning. 

“GOD _DAMN_ YOU!” Helena screamed, lashing out desperately, clawing him in the face. He took his hands from his ludicrously exposed genitals and penned her down with one arm while he clouted her in the eye with the opposite fist.

For a tenth of a second Helena almost managed to convince herself that Peter had been possessed. But it was not demonic rage she heard in his voice as he shouted, “Isn’t this what you _wanted_ , Helena? I’m giving you exactly what you’ve asked me for!” It was spoiled, childish petulance, vintage Peter circa 1910. She might have been a rubber ball or a boiled sweet. Or the playmate who had either when he wanted them. “You want my seed?” he taunted her. “You want my semen inside of you, you vicious, scheming bitch!?! You’re going to get it and every fucking inch of me into the fucking bargain!”

He did it. He literally, physically did it. Peter pushed his hard, swollen penis inside her drawn up, resistant vagina. Helena cried out: a wail, a moan, a scream murdered by a sob. Peter ripped and bruised and bludgeoned his way inside her. It hurt at least as much as you might expect, but physical pain had little part in Helena’s anguished wailing. ‘I _loved_ you, you bastard!’ she accuse him wordlessly. ‘You were my _friend_!’ She lay there beneath him, weeping like the flood that washed away the world. She had lost her will to resist him. He was a shut door that only God could open and her cries found no pity, no solace in him. He rained blows upon her from without as he repeatedly stabbed her from within until, at last, with a moan of relief, he spilled his seed inside of her.

Finally, Peter released her. He rolled off of her, breathing hard, as though they’d just finished a wrestling match, like ten thousand times before. He lay next to her panting, saying nothing, his eyes open but not looking at her. 

Helena pulled her undergarments back in place and smoothed her skirt down over them. Despite the palpable sensation of his warm semen pooling inside of her, she felt as cold as the vacuum between the stars, and as empty. It seemed that by some anti-mathematical process he had taken out of her a hundred times what he had put inside her. For a moment, even her grief abandoned her. Helena was a particle in an inert universe where the distinction between something and nothing was lost.

And then a sneaking, pitiful traitor of a thought infiltrated her mind. The timing was neither what her careful study and amalgamation of the ancient texts nor the fumbling theories of the modern ‘men of science’ would have suggested… but maybe, just maybe! These things were, after all, inexact. On that all sources agreed. Helena was suddenly disgusted with herself, then doubly so with Peter. Her emptiness filled up with anger. She got to her feet and looked down at him. He was curled on his side, weeping, as if she had broken his heart.

~~~~

Sunnydale, CA, February 20, 1998

Xander's dick was as hard as a diamond. It stood between them making it impossible for Cordelia to lie flat against him. She had a solution to that problem. Straddling him, taking his dick in one hand, parting her lips with the other, she guided it inside her pussy. Xander thought he might pass out from shock and delight as that hot, wet organ enveloped him. 

Without consciously deciding to, he was moving inside of her in short swift strokes. She moved atop him, effectively lengthening each thrust and gently encouraging him into a slower rhythm. Within a couple of minutes; however, he was seized by an overwhelming impulse to thrust his dick inside her harder and faster. Grabbing her by the hips, he did as his penis commanded.

Xander was on the edge of coming when it occurred to him that he had never once in his entire life discussed with anyone, including Cordelia, any method of birth control other than a condom; which he had dutifully carried in his wallet for almost two years now but was not wearing. A panicked part of his mind told him to pull out. He tried, but the way the walls of her cunt rubbed against him on the back stroke made him forget what he was doing. Before he know it he was thrusting forward again, pushing his dick in as deep as it would go. There was no more time to think about it. He came inside of her. For a moment, the intensity of pleasure blocked out every other thought and emotion.

Cordelia collapsed against him, sighing. Pleasure, unless he was mistaken, mixed with disappointment in that gentle exhalation. He was forced to admit that the actual act of fucking had not lasted very long, nor had Cordelia behaved anything like what he imagined a woman might if she were having an orgasm. “I told you I only needed five minutes,” he mumbled sheepishly by way of apology.

Cordelia snuggled against him patting his shrinking dick encouragingly, like it was a little teammate. “Actually,” she said silkily, “for a first effort, that was... pretty good. I’d say you have... unlimited potential.” Xander, who was used to measured praise from Cordelia, found her honest yet optimistic critique more reassuring than an improbable insistence that he was a naturally amazing fuck. 

As they lay there, naked and warm in each other’s arms, he felt his dick growing stiff again, becoming ready for another round of passion. But there was still that one worry, and he resolved to tackle it before tackling Cordelia. “Cordy,” he began, shifting nervously beneath her, “this may be... a little late to bring this up... but, I mean I _have_ condoms, or... just the one actually... but...”

Cordelia laughed out loud. “No,” she said with gentle sarcasm. "Right after sex is the perfect time to mention condoms." At Xander's quizzical look, she rolled her eyes and then smiled, punching him on the arm. "I’m on the Pill silly. I mean, what kind of a moron do you think I am?”

~~~~

As their bodies writhed together, Rupert’s legs continually scraped painfully against the asphalt parking lot, but not nearly painfully enough for him to want to stop fucking Buffy. The pain was nothing compared to the sensation of her hot, tight muscular cunt, which resisted him just enough to provide a sweet sense of triumph as it yielded to his every thrust with the perfect balance of fluidity and friction. 

Slowly, dimly, it dawned on him that Buffy must be getting scraped up as well, or rather worse, though she was far from complaining. He rolled on his back, pulling her on top of him. She rode him a while, moaning and panting. 

The pain _was_ worse in this position, but not worse enough. His flesh still hummed gratefully as passion raged between them like a rock symphony rolling in waves through their bodies until at last, the intensity of pleasure was too much for both of them.

Overcome with lust, Rupert flung Buffy to the ground and rolled on top of her once more. He fucked her harder and faster than ever as she bucked her hips against him. Her cries of ecstasy rang through the night: “Yes! Yes! God, Yes!” The spasms that shook her body sent Rupert over the edge, unable to hold back his own orgasm any longer. It was like nothing he had ever felt before. He was shaken to the core of his being. His moaning was deep and guttural, like that of an animal. He came like a fire hose, spraying what felt like buckets of semen deep into Buffy’s body. 

“Oh, Buffy,” he cried, “I love you. I love you so much!” But, seconds later, as they lay gasping in one another’s arms, their passion spent, Giles felt an emptiness welling up in his heart that quickly filled with grief and shame. As his heart rate slowed to near normal and the reality of whose naked skin still clung damply to his settled sickly upon his soul, it dawned on him that he had just committed a very serious crime. 

Rupert was struck by the vision of an event which he had not witnessed himself but had heard Buffy recount many times with pride and admiration: Joyce Summers brandishing an ax and commanding a snarling demon, ‘You get the Hell away from my daughter! Nobody lays a hand on my little girl!’

Suddenly, Giles was on his feet. So suddenly that Buffy looked up at him, startled, stung. 

The name of the crime was Rape.


	2. Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Buffy and Giles dwell on the wrong they feel they've done, Xander and Cordelia settle the score between them til they both feel oh so right.

Giles stood there, absurdly naked, his deflated cock dripping, staring down at Buffy in helpless, silent apology as she pulled her lithe young body into a sitting position, her knees pulled up to her chin, only half hiding her perfect breasts. Guiltily, he turned away, unable to face her. Realizing what a mistake this was, what an insult, he instantly turned back.

“Buffy, I—” he began plaintively, but there was nothing he could say. It was too late. She wrapped her arms around her legs, buried her face in her knees and wept. At that delicate moment he had literally turned his back on her. There was no denying why. He was ashamed of what they had just done. 

He felt he owed her an apology, but what was he to say? _I’m sorry I took advantage of the fact that you were fool enough to let me fuck you_? he thought sardonically. Was there anything _more_ insulting that a man could possibly say to a woman, however he chose to say it?

Looking up again, Giles was reminded that the world around them was lit, not by starlight, but by the none too distant raging of fire through the factory. “Buffy!” he shouted, extending a hand to help her from the ground, “We’ve got to get out of here!” 

Looking away from him, her eyes in shadow, Buffy stood without his help. Quickly and silently, they gathered their clothes and dressed. One furtive glance was all it took to see that Buffy's ass was scraped raw and oozing blood. Rupert was bleeding a little himself. His flesh stung as if from the punishment of a just lashing.

~~~~

Cordelia sat astride Xander like an equestrian, her knees tucked against either side of his abdomen. He imaged her with spurs and a riding crop. His chest was her saddle. He’d never wanted to be a horse so much in all his life. Her sticky, dripping pussy slid to and fro against him as she bobbed up and down, not just with her head but with her whole body. She had his balls in her hands and his dick in her mouth. He felt like he was going to die and die happy. He had surrendered to her completely. She was in total control.

She gave his balls a gentle squeeze as she traced the mushroom cap edge of his dick head with her tongue before sucking him nearly down her throat once again. “Oh God!” he moaned, “I’m gonna come again.”

Cordelia stopped abruptly and sat up, arching her back and tossing her hair. She let go of his balls. “Oh no you’re not!” she scolded playfully. But she meant it when she said, “You don’t get to come again until I do.”

~~~~

By the time they got to the car, Giles was still able to look Buffy in the face only intermittently. She gave him a small, meant-to-be-comforting smile that told him she felt as lost as he did. She looked tired. He felt tired, emotionally wrung out. Her hopeful, searching liquid green gaze was more than he could bear. She was a child, dependent on him, trusting him to tell her what to do, to tell her it would be okay, that she _hadn’t_ been a fool to let him fuck her. 

“I’d... better get you home,” he said stiffly, turning to face the steering wheel.

“Are you going to be alright on your own tonight?” Buffy asked, sounding deeply concerned for his wellbeing, making him all the more certain that he was a good for nothing son-of-a-bitch.

“Yes,” he replied woodenly, “I’ll be alright.” The prospect of facing the coming night alone chilled him deep within his soul. Especially if that night was to be spent in his own, violated home. The place where the demon he’d stupidly let inside had laughingly, playfully defiled the broken, lifeless body of his beloved. But he was not mad enough to suggest that Buffy return to his home with him, or worse still he to hers.

They drove on until the silence became embarrassingly long. “I... um... I had Willow do the spell,” Buffy said finally. “On your house. He won’t be back.”

“That’s a small mercy, I suppose,” Giles mumbled distractedly. Immediately he felt a great fool and ingrate. “That is... I mean... thank you. That was... erm... very good thinking, to get that taken care of. ”

“Don’t mention it,” said Buffy dryly. Then, gently, she added, laying her hand on his thigh, “I just want you to be safe. I meant what I said. I can’t lose you.”

A current of desire seemed to flow like electricity from her fingertips and up into his loins, which continued to hum with the power of her proximate touch long after she’d moved her hand away. Giles’ heart swelled with affection and regret. 

“Oh, Buffy—!” he began, but there was no way to finish the thought. Nothing he could say would change the fact that he had done her a grave disservice. He had betrayed her trust, even if she didn’t yet see it that way. Suppressing a sigh, he let the matter rest and tried to concentrate on driving.

The drive went on forever in oppressive silence. Yet, too soon, they pulled to a stop in front of the house on Revello Drive. Buffy reached to open her door and suddenly, desperately, he wanted her to stay. He couldn’t bear the thought of her going inside. He wanted to grab her, kiss her, put his hands on her body, tell her she must be his forevermore or he would surely die. 

Quickly, he took hold of her hand and squeezed it. “Buffy I—” I what? Need you? Want you? Love you? Desperately desire to move into your beautiful bush and remain there ‘til the end of my days? All of these things were true, but she didn’t need to hear them. In fact, he realized, he’d already said too much about ‘love’. “I... can’t do this without you either,” he finished haltingly. “Thank you, for... saving me,”he added, desperate to have something more to say.

Buffy looked into his eyes longingly, tempting him to speak further, to make impossible promises. He held his tongue, watching her tensely, her round breasts rising and falling with each shallow breath, wondering if her heart were hammering like his. 

After a long moment, she looked apprehensively towards the house. He followed her gaze. Joyce stood watching them, back-lit in the open doorway, a dark shape outlined in golden light, like the angel of judgment. 

“I’ll... um... call you tomorrow,” Buffy said nervously, “you know, just to see how you are.”

“Thanks,” he replied with real warmth and fake contentment, “I’d like that.” 

Buffy pushed her car door the rest of the way open, clearly signaling her intent to leave. Letting go of her hand felt like losing his grip on a lifeline, but he did it, forcing a smile.

~~~~

Xander was on top this time, his strokes more controlled, more even. Moaning and squealing with pleasure, Cordelia moved her body in rhythm with his once more. Several times he had to stop, still too close to coming while she was still too far away. In the intervals, he rubbed her labia against her clit and against the shaft of his dick until Cordelia begged, pleaded, commanded him to move within her again; harder, faster, deeper. Slowly the pressure built to a climax until, at last, the two lay gasping in unison, basking in the glow of carnal satisfaction. 

“So,” Cordelia panted teasingly, leaning close against Xander, her bare chest pressed to his, “What should we do with the rest of our evening?”

Xander grinned happily, no reason to worry that his girlfriend was disappointed _this_ time. “Let’s grope for about an hour,” he suggested. “Then, I’ll be ready to go another round.”

~~~~

“Was that Mr. Giles?” Joyce asked as Buffy fairly sprinted past her into the house. Then, registering her daughter’s hurry to be elsewhere, she called to her retreating back, “Buffy, are you okay?”

Buffy deliberately put a few stairs behind her before calling out “Fine, Mom.” After all the drama of the day, Joyce took the hint and let her be, probably assuming that it was grief over Miss Calendar’s murder that was upsetting her daughter. 

Buffy felt a stab of guilt for using the dead woman in this way, to cover her own transgression. As if her mother could possibly have any inkling of what had happened! Buffy didn’t quite believe it herself, and she was the one with no skin on her ass, her cunt feeling altogether more pleasantly, though almost as thoroughly abraded. 

Yet it was undeniably true. Buffy had just been well and truly fucked, for the second time in her life. By Giles! She was amazed, hardly knowing what to think or how to feel about the truth of this impossible fact. 

Rupert Giles was older than her parents. He was her Watcher, her teacher. He was... well, _Giles_. Grownup, solid, boring, smug, superior, old, English Giles. She could hardly believe he was the same person, the same _man_ who had just made love to her so passionately, so intensely and so... _well_. 

My God! He fucked me, she found herself continually rerealizing. We fucked. I fucked Giles! Giles _came_ inside me. While we were fucking.

Of course, she knew intellectually that he was not _that_ old. Certainly not as old as Angel. And at least the huge, throbbing rod of flesh that he had repeatedly thrust inside of her was actually still alive. 

And so were the billions of tiny sperm he’d just sprayed against her cervix she suddenly realized, horrified, frantically doing math in her head. Billions of microscopic half Gileses were, at that very moment, swimming inside her body, each excitedly hunting for a tiny half a Buffy, to merge with her on a cellular level into a biological time bomb that could wipe out her life as she knew it.

Her mother’s question about the sex she’d had with Angel rang in her ears, “Were you careful?” She had been so indignant at the suggestion that she needed to be reminded of such a basic principal of grown-up responsibility, yet, not four hours later, she had spread herself open in a parking lot and invited in a man about whom she was not conscious of ever having had a previous sexual thought, without so much as a word passing between them on the subject of birth control. 

Buffy thought of what Xander had said last year when he’d followed her down into a vampire infested sewer to try to save his friend Jesse. When asked why he didn’t have a blade, a stake, or even a cross, he’d answered with his usual aplomb, “The part of my brain that would tell me to bring those things is still busy telling me not to come down here.” The part of Buffy’s brain that would have told her to be ‘careful’ also would have told her not to have sex with Giles.

Twenty minus seven was thirteen. Damn. Not good.

But still not quite as horrifying as the fact that each and every one of those tiny sperm had been born out of a deep and abiding desire to fuck Jenny Calendar. God! The thought of them, pooling in his balls as he stood transfixed in horror by the sight of her battered corpse, his disappointed cock deflating, pining for the lost opportunity. Until something almost as good had happened to come along. A lucky accident. 

A mistake, Buffy realized, a misdirection of energy, testosterone and adrenaline overflowing in the messed up brain of a man who had been thwarted in love and war, denied the satisfaction of both sex and vengeance, all in one night. Buffy thought unpleasantly of a crass joke she’d once hear in a movie: ‘If you want to get fucked, go to court. If you want justice, go to a whore house.’

And yet, at that exact moment, when he was coming inside of her, Giles had said he _loved_ her. Then again, moments later, he had been too ashamed even to look at her. How much did it actually mean for a guy to say ‘I love you’ during sex, Buffy wondered. Angel has said she had a lot to learn about men; and, she now realized, it was true. 

Of course, Angel had also said he loved her, after she had fucked him more than half to death. In his case, it had been a cruel joke, but then, Angel was an evil, sadistic demon who delighted in tormenting Buffy. Giles was... well... _Giles_. She could hardly believe he would have said something like that to her if he hadn’t meant it, orgasms notwithstanding.

What if she had misread him altogether? What if he had jumped up, unable to look at her, because he felt rejected, because she hadn’t said that she loved him too? 

Or maybe she was just a dumb little girl who’d let a forty-year-old man mount her like Everest, because she was there. Maybe Giles had been too ashamed to look upon her stupidity, no longer able to judge her worthy of his support and his respect.


	3. A Riddle In Four Syllables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As she tries to comfort Buffy, Willow struggles not to understand her own desires.

Buffy needed to be alone, she told herself. She needed to clear her mind, to sleep, to pretend that none of the events of the last two days, or the last two months had ever happened. Yet when she entered her room and found Willow waiting there, she gasped with relief. “Oh, Wil! Thank God you’re here!”

“I couldn’t just go home,” Willow explained sitting down next to Buffy on the bed. “I had to make sure you were okay. Are you? Okay?” She asked doubtfully, taking in Buffy’s disheveled appearance. Buffy’s face was streaked with soot and tears. Her hair was dirty and disarranged. Her clothes were rumpled and... misbuttoned? Why would her clothes be misbuttoned? Was she even wearing a bra? Her breasts hung differently beneath her shirt, further apart, accentuating the gapping of the buttons. Her nipples were clearly visible underneath, two hard little points, like tiny spires on the little cupolas that were her soft, round breasts.

Something other than friendly concern stirred deep within Willow, something that she chose to label “embarrassment.” Although embarrassment didn’t usually tingle quite so much. Whatever was stirring was making her want to put her hands over those beautiful breasts... just to cover them up, she told herself. Willow pushed these unsettling feelings, these ill defined desires, back to the back of her brain as hard as she could, willing herself to ignore them, to focusing on her friend’s needs.

“No,” Buffy said shaking her head, “I’m not okay.”There were tears shining in her emerald eyes. “I screwed up, and now everything is bad, and I don’t know what to do!”

Panic clouded Willow’s face, “Oh, Buffy, is Giles... he didn’t... Angel didn’t ... I mean he’s not...?”

“No, no” Buffy assured her, her tone oddly ironic, “Giles is _definitely_ alive. I got there just in time. The fang gang got away clean, but the factory is history. He burned it down!” This last revelation was stated with stark amazement. Willow was amazed herself.

“Why would Angel...?”

“Not Angel,” Buffy corrected, “Giles.”

“Wow,” Willow breathed, stunned. “Arson. That’s a side of him we’ve never seen before. He’s like a whole new Giles...or...you know... a whole… old...Giles,” she reflected, “I mean... he _is_ the same person that Ethan Rayne insists on calling ‘Ripper.’ I guess he didn’t get that name by being the biggest perfectionist in his sewing circle after all.”

A sharp laugh escaped Buffy’s lips, “Oh, believe me, you don’t even know the half of it!” she said. She had a flash of vivid, visceral memory, of being stretched and pulled and pushed open to the point that pleasure and pain merged like lovers into a new and indescribable sensation that made her feel, just for a moment, that she might literally be torn apart, that she might want to be, that maybe being ripped asunder by his unbelievable dick was the real purpose of her entire existence.

But it wasn’t. Buffy buried her face in her hands, ashamed to look Willow in the eye. “He’s... not himself... and I ... I’m such an idiot and everything’s a mess... because... because,” Buffy was really crying now, “we’re still in love with _them_ and we shouldn’t be doing it with each other, and it’s all just wrong and stupid and pointless!”

Now Willow was confused as well as concerned. Buffy’s words, her actions, even her appearance seemed to imply...something impossible. Willow’s pulse quickened. Those stirrings she felt were riding awfully low for ‘embarrassment.’ Tingling had graduated to humming and the hum was centered more or less directly in the middle of her pussy. Realizing that, she became genuinely embarrassed. But still, she didn’t really believe... “Buffy,” she whined, desperately clinging to her doubts, “I think maybe you must have breathed in some kind of fumes...from the fire. You’re... not making sense.”

Buffy forced herself to look into Willow’s eyes. “I slept with him,” she said shaking her head, seeming stunned. “I just slept with _Giles._ ”

Willow struggled not to understand what she was hearing. “You sle— You mean you dosed off...in...in his car?”

Buffy looked at her as if to say, _come on, even you can’t be that innocent_. “I let him _fuck_ me,” she clarified, her voice hard with self-contempt, “with his penis. Giles has a penis, by the way, in case you were wondering. A huge one, actually, big enough to make you feel like you’re being split down the middle. And, yeah, I’m pretty sure _that is_ why they call him that.”

Willow shifted uncomfortably, finding it difficult to sit on the parts of herself that really had been wondering, had suspected all along, that Giles had a penis, maybe a really nice one,attached no doubt, to two large testosterone brewing testicles and that, librarian or not, he knew exactly what to do with them. “Oh, Buffy,” she said with distaste and disappointment letting the more conventional, acceptable part of herself speak; then, again, with concern, pity, vicarious regret, “Oh Buffy.”

Buffy was looking up at her miserably, needing best-friendly support that she was still struggling to feel.   Desperately, Willow tried to blot the image of Giles fucking Buffy out of her mind, tried not to imagine Buffy’s legs splayed wide to reveal her throbbing passion pink genitals opening like a flower at the center of her lily white thighs, tried not to imagine what it would feel like to be that flower, to be split apart by Giles, to have his huge cock inside her. It was hard to believe he had actually done it to Buffy. It was a criminal act. Willow knew she should have been appalled by it. A part of her was. Really. Truly. And she was horrified by the parts of her that weren’t.

“Well, okay,” she assayed finally, trying to reassure herself as well as Buffy that everything was still more or less normal and not horribly, horribly wrong, “that was a bad decision, but we all make bad decisions, you know, from time to time...” The high pitched squeaking in Willow’s voice wasn’t helping she realized, but there was no way to keep it out. She whimpered miserably, completely spun no matter how hard she tried not to be.

Predictably, this did not have the effect of making Buffy feel better about what had happened. She clutched at Willow’s hands, panicked, as if she had only just realized the enormity of what she had revealed. “No one can know about this,” she half begged, half demanded, “Wil, promise me you won’t tell anyone, not even Oz and especially not Xander. Not even Giles can know that I told you. Willow, promise me!”

“Of course,” Willow assured her, with a sinking feeling in her stomach, “I won’t tell a soul.” Of course she would keep Buffy’s secret. She had kept Buffy’s sexual secrets before. But sex with a two-hundred-something-year-old vampire was...other worldly... Gothically romantic. It was the kind of secret that made a girl feel...tingly. Sex with a forty-something-year-old librarian was... after-school-specially. It was the kind of secret that made a girl feel... creepy. When the nice lady with the sock puppets told the second grade class that there was a difference between good secrets and bad secrets, this was exactly the kind of secret she meant. “How...?” Willow couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Why...? What _happened_?”

Buffy shrugged, wiping her eyes, seeming to get a handle on her emotions. “Seemed like a good idea at the time?” she offered lamely. More seriously, she added, “Wil, you didn’t see him. When I dragged him out of that building, I didn’t know if he was dead or alive. Then, when I could see that he was coming to, I just felt so...so...”

“Relieved?” Willow guessed.

“Angry,” Buffy said firmly, “Terrified. There he was rushing off to die for... her after everything that she—And I _needed_ him... and he was... I almost lost him,” Buffy concluded, speaking barely above a whisper. She sighed deeply. “I really didn’t know what I was feeling. We were just kind of holding each other... at first... and I guess things kind of ... escalated...”

Buffy buried her face in her hands again. Willow continued to shift uncomfortably. “Look, Buffy,” she said, “It’s after midnight. Why don’t we try to get some sleep? Maybe in the morning you’ll feel a little better, not a lot maybe, but a little, and you... and...and Giles can talk things out... at least get some clarity on ... where you stand.”

“Yeah,” Buffy agreed halfheartedly, “maybe your right...” But she _was_ troubled about where she stood with Giles, very troubled. She thought again of his ecstatic declaration of love at the moment of orgasm. If he’d really meant it, wouldn’t he have said something about it on the way home? And if he hadn’t? Truthfully, she didn’t even know if she wanted him to mean it or not. Probably not, actually. Buffy loved Giles, but she didn’t _love_ Giles. And even if she did, she’d have to be brain damaged to think that he could ever be her boyfriend. A teacher you secretly have sex with is not a boyfriend. Even if they started being ‘careful’ they were playing in serious traffic here. She had to tell him, she realized, as soon as possible, that what had happened tonight could never happen again. She just wasn’t sure how he was going to take it on top of the rest of the ongoing disaster that was his life.

Buffy struggled to put her concerns into words. “I... I just don’t want to hurt him,” she explained. “I mean, how do you tell a... guy that you don’t think of him, you know, that way, _after_ you’ve stripped him naked and banged him in a parking lot?”

“Well...” Willow squeaked, “I don’t really feel qualified to answer most of that... but I do know a thing or two about rejection, and I know it helps a lot if the other person is honest with you and shows that they care about your feelings. Plus, I heard this crazy rumor that, when it comes to guys, sleeping with them first kind of softens the blow.”

“I hope you’re right about that,” said Buffy skeptically.

“It does seem counter-intuitive,” Willow agreed, “but, guys are different from girls or...you know... so I’ve heard. Just, don’t tell him you’re still in love with Angel,” she advised.

Buffy felt a sudden flush of anger, “I’m not—!” she began to protest, but she knew better. If she could turn back time, she’d be in his bed right now, his cold, stiff cock inside her, piercing her like a sake of ice through the heart. She’d rewind over and over. She’d fuck him until the end of time and then rewind again, never, ever reaching that moment when everything that mattered in the world had died. “Okay, I am,” she admitted shaking a little, “but the Angel I love is dead. He’s gone forever, just the same as Miss Calendar is. I don’t think I really understood that until tonight.”

“My God,” Willow gasped, her eyes going round with horror. For a moment Buffy assumed she had only been struck once again by the reality of Miss Calendar’s murder. Then, Willow took Buffy by the shoulders and gave her a serious, searching look. She opened her mouth as if to say something but hesitated, seeming to think better of it.

“Wil,” Buffy asked, slightly unnerved, “What?”

Willow released her, seeming embarrassed by her sudden excess of hands, folding them awkwardly in her lap. “Buffy,” she whined, repositioning herself so that they were looking at one another in profile rather than full in the face, “I don’t mean to be a cynic, and maybe you don’t want to hear this, but maybe it’s yourself you should be worried about protecting.”

Buffy felt puzzled and somehow, indefinably insulted. “Willow,” she asked,” What do you mean?” An instant later, it occurred to her that Willow might have been talking about being ‘careful.’ But she wasn’t. The possibility of pregnancy didn’t seem to have crossed her mind.

“I mean,” she half apologized, “Giles didn’t go to the factory looking for... a shoulder to cry on. He went there looking for revenge... on Angel... for murdering and raping the woman he loved. I mean in... evolutionary terms... when one...male steals another male’s...mate...”

“No!” said Buffy emphatically, not wanting to admit that she’d had some of these thoughts herself only minutes ago, “I get what you’re saying, and no. Giles didn’t fuck me to... to... _score points_ on Angel! He’s not—He wouldn’t—”

“Buffy,”Willow persisted gently, “you just said he wasn’t himself. I mean, Giles is a good man, I know that, and he cares about you, really he does. But, Buffy, he is still a man, which is to say an ape, which is to say a big, hairy male animal who pretty much does what his little head tells him to do.”

“So, you’re saying... what, exactly?”

“I’m saying, don’t be too disappointed if Giles doesn’t mind being ‘rejected’ as much as you might think. The way most people usually count, he’s already got the brass ring. He might actually be relieved to quit something this dangerous while he’s ahead.”

Buffy sighed deeply. She loved Willow, and Willow was very smart, but she was not sure how much stock she could actually place in the relationship advice of a socially awkward virgin who had really only been dating for a few weeks and couldn’t even get to second base with a werewolf. “I hope your right,” she said, “about that last part anyway. I don’t feel like worrying about it anymore tonight.”

“Yeah,” Willow agreed, wanting to take a break from thinking about the subject herself, “let’s get some sleep.”

“Well, actually, you go ahead,” said Buffy awkwardly, scrunching up her face. “I...kind of need to take a shower first.”Willow, avoided making any comment and, she hoped, any expression in response. While it was true that Buffy was smudged with visible dirt and soot, just thinking about what else she might need to wash away, like Rupert Giles’s semen, for example, made Willow feel a little queasy, and yet, incongruously, a little jealous. Nobody, man or boy, had ever offered to come inside of her pussy and the fact that the one girl most pursued by men and boys she could imagine herself fucking also held a confusing, for lack of a better word, magnetic, power over her only added to her dis-ease.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hint, for some of our British readers it might be closer to three syllables.


	4. Invaders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Willow feels guilty in Buffy's bed, but not the way you might imagine. Cordelia sticks her nose in Giles' business, but only metaphorically. When Spike tries to get Dru to leave Angel, Angel teaches him a lesson, complete with a visceral demonstration.

Xander never in a million years would have admitted it to anyone. He would have denied it under oath and probably under torture, maybe even it the point of death. But the taste of his own cum, mixed with the tang of Cordelia’s vaginal juices was salty and exciting and nasty-delicious and enjoying it knowing that he wasn’t supposed to be enjoying it, that he was supposed to be making a sacrifice, returning a favor, evening up the score on orgasms, excited him most of all. He had a sneaking sense of triumph, of finally being the one to get the best of Cordelia for once. He’d be having orgasms the rest of his life remembering this moment.

His mouth was fitted like a vacuum seal over her pussy, lips kissing lips, sucking and slurping. He thrust his tongue deep inside her, licking the spongy walls of her sexual organ, before returning his attention to her clitoris again. It had swelled to twice it’s all but microscopic size, like a tiny cock straining to rise against the folds of flesh that kept it bound in place, helplessly, hopefully exposing it’s tiny head to his merciless tongue. It shuttered, and her whole body shuttered in response.

“Oh!” Cordelia shouted. “Oh! Oh! OH YES!!!! OH, OH YESSS!!! YESSS!!! YESS!!! GOD THAT FEELS _SO GOOD_!!!!! Xander’s dick, only half hard, too spent from the nights use to get any harder, dribbled cum down his legs. He was giddy with the knowledge of the pleasure he was giving her, and with the realization that she was as helpless before the onslaught of his passion as he was before hers.

“I told you I only needed five minutes,” he repeated, smugly this time, grinning from ear to ear. Cordelia sighed happily. She didn’t bother to point out the hours of prep work that had built up to those five minutes of oral ecstasy. She curled lovingly against his chest, in love with her increasingly amazing lover, pleased and proud of all the progress he’d made in a single night of instruction. Not that she was going to tell him that. She didn’t want him to get a swelled head, to become complacent.

“So,” she teased, repeating her lines as well, her breathing already returning to normal, “what do we do with the rest of the night?”

“What time is it?” Xander asked.

The car was turned off, the dashboard clock blank. Cordelia leaded over the front seat, her perfect ass exposed. He held it in his hands, messaging it as she rummaged in her purse for her phone. He bent and kissed it. Cordelia swatted him away, giggling, and found her phone at last among the seemingly infinite contents of her deceptively tiny looking handbag. It was the expensive kind, the kind that had a clock on it. “It’s just after two,” she said, maybe a little worriedly.

“What?” he asked.

“I’m just not sure if that disinvitation spell will really work on a car or not,” she said. “Now that I think about it, I’m not sure they have to be invited in to a car in the first place. It’s four more hours till sunrise. Maybe we should be trying to find a place we can get inside.”

Xander considered this for a moment. “Well I can’t go home,” he said. “I’m supposed to be at Willow’s, comforting her after... you know, everything.”

Cordelia laughed dryly. “In my next life, _I_ want the stupid parents,” she said.

Xander sat up straighter, a little offended despite never having had a high opinion of his parents’ intelligence. Or his own for that matter. “What’s stupid about my parents?” he asked.

“Your excuse for staying out all night with a girl is that you’re staying out all night with a girl,” she pointed out.

“Willow’s not a girl,” he said off-handedly. “She’s Willow.” But a second later he thought of all the confusing, wonderful, terrible things besides and beyond fear he had felt when he’d found her in his bed a few days ago, the way the memory of her mouth had felt on his skin in the days since. His mom had let her in despite the suspicious time of day and the strangeness of her behavior. Of course, she’d had no way of knowing that practically the entire female population of Sunnydale wanted him for a fuck monkey, since she was one of only two women in town not actually affected by that particular spell, but still...

Cordelia was giving him the skeptical look he so richly deserved. “Okay,” he conceded, “my parents are idiots.” There was no point trying to exclude his father. Everyone knew that between the two of them, Tony was not the bright one, even on those increasingly rare occasions when he happened to be sober.

“Well, I can’t go home either” said Cordelia matter-of-factly, mercifully changing the subject. “My parents think I’m staying over at Harmony’s.”

“Harmony’s?” Xander asked incredulously. “Seriously?”

“I find it helps to keep them a little behind on my social life,” Cordelia explained lightly.

“But what if they try to check,” Xander worried aloud, “won’t Harmony rat you out?”

Cordelia shrugged, “They haven’t checked to make sure I was at Harmony’s at any point in the past ten years. I’d say it’s a calculated risk.” Cordelia sighed again, a little sadly, Xander thought. He ignored it, hoping he was imagining something that wasn’t there.

“So I guess I’m not the only one with stupid parents,” he pointed out teasingly, trying to keep the conversation moving along. It didn’t seem to be working.

Cordelia was quiet for a few moments, thoughtful. “Maybe we should go check on Giles,” she mused. “I only spoke to Willow for a minute on the phone, and all I really got out of her was that he’s alive, but she just seemed kind of... I don’t know... weird about it. Maybe he could use some company. And then at least we could get inside.”

Xander was skeptical of this idea. Among other reasons, it seemed like it might require him to stand up in the near future. His entire body was exhausted. Unbelievably happy, but exhausted. “I don’t know, Cordy,”he yawned. “I think it might be kind of rude to show up at his apartment at two something in the morning. Maybe we should let him get some sleep.”

“Sleep?” said Cordelia, a sarcastic edge to her voice, “In the bed where his girlfriend was found brutally murdered and _then_ raped, like six hours ago?”

“Or on the couch maybe?” Xander suggested hopefully, near passing out himself.

Cordelia, was assaulted by the memory of Kevin Barker’s lifeless body tumbling infinitely towards her through the half open door of the AV room during the longest tenth of a second in the history of her Universe. She saw in microscopic detail the two tiny wounds through which the life had been sucked out of him through hollow fangs that had been thrust deep into his flesh. Uninvited. “Trust me,” she said “he’s not asleep.”

~~~~

It was a long night. Willow lay awake in Buffy’s bed as seconds tick, tick, ticked away, stretching into an infinite succession of ever lengthening minutes...2:00am...2:01am...2:02am... days away from morning. When at last Buffy was asleep, breathing deep and evenly, her perfect breasts rising and falling, Willow felt relieved. She’d been faking sleep herself ever since Buffy had come back from the shower.

Buffy and Giles. Giles and Buffy. Having hot, sweaty, sticky, cummy sex, with moaning and screaming and orgasms. It didn’t add up. In the year that she’d known them Willow had heard daily from each the faults of the other. Giles was old, boring, stuffy, out-of-touch, demanding. Buffy was immature, unfocused, frivolous, obstinate, reckless, uncooperative. Daily they projected their frustrations with their own responsibilities onto one another, mutually going out of their way to confirm these deliberately unfair assessments. Still, there was no denying the strong bond of trust and affection that had swiftly and steadily grown between them. Giles had become almost a third parent to Buffy, to all of them really.

The thought of them coupling in a parking lot! It was disturbing, disorienting ...and uncomfortably arousing. It made Willow want to finger herself. Her cunt was aching to be touched. She wished she’d brought a sleeping bag. It made her feel horribly guilty to lie inches away from Buffy’s warm, slumbering form thinking these thoughts, even if she wasn’t going to _do_ anything about them.

Willow felt like a trespasser, one who had been invited in under false pretenses. How many times had she lain in her own bed moving her hands like a lover’s over her body, indulging in the fantasy that those hands belong to Rupert Giles, the smartest, strongest, bravest, and most thoroughly grown-up and dependable man she knew? Those very qualities had convinced her of the impossibility that anything could come of these midnight imaginings. Now, suddenly, her safely impossible fantasy was a dangerous reality, just not for her.

Once again, just as with Xander, Willow found herself running fourth in a three horse race behind a known enemy, any hypothetical female on Earth and Buffy. Rationally, she knew that Buffy and Giles having sex was not about her, any more than Xander’s desperate desire to fuck Buffy, or Cordelia for that matter. Willow knew she ought to feel grateful for her new, blooming, thoroughly age appropriate romance with Oz, which she continued to hope might lead to her cunt being touched any day now, or at least her boobs anyway. She knew she ought to feel worried for her friend (her _two_ friends) who had gotten themselves into this dangerously inappropriate situation. She did feel all of those things. But the bottom line was, they were getting fucked and she wasn’t.

Not that she was a hundred percent sure she was ready to be fucked for really real and not just in her head, but at least she’d like to be able to say she was a virgin by choice, as a matter of virtue rather than necessity. With all the hype out there about men and their urges and how they were only after one thing, you’d think eventually every girl would get an _opportunity_ to ‘just say no’, wouldn’t you? Unless there really was something wrong with her. She felt like there was. She’d been told so enough. Apparently, as desperately as every male of the species wanted sex, not one of them, not even her so called boyfriend, was quite desperate enough to try to stick it in Willow Rosenberg, Queen of the Geeks. Men wanted to do it with beautiful girls. Like Buffy.

Buffy sighed and moaned, stirring a little in her sleep, her body brushing against Willow’s for a moment, ever so slightly. Willow’s stirrings were stirring like crazy. Here in the breathing dark, it’s lone waking consciousness, it was hard to pretend what she felt was ‘embarrassment’, but no power in Earth or Hell could have driven her to call it by a truer name. Unable to help herself, Willow rubbed her sexual parts a little through her panties, kneading her labia, putting slight, indirect pressure on her clitoris. After a few minutes, she slipped her fingers inside her clothes, inside her body, telling herself that what she was doing wasn’t really sexual. She just had to release the tension she felt so that she would be able to sleep. She bit her lip to keep from crying out when she came. As her heartbeat slowed to normal, she felt a little better, maybe even a little sleepy. But she also felt confused, dirty, unwanted and just a little bit resentful knowing that she was being left behind as those around her plunged forward (or backward) into an exciting, if irresponsible, young adulthood.

~~~~

It was nearly 3:00 when they arrived at Giles doorstep. “I don’t know about this, Cordy,” Xander objected for the hundredth time, hesitating with his hand an inch from the doorbell. Granted every light in the house was on, but still, coming here seemed... intrusive. Cordelia made a noise that perfectly communicated her disgust and contempt for his cowardice. Shoving Xander out of the way, she leaned her palm against the doorbell so that it emitted a continuous buzzing within. The buzzing went on for at least five minutes without any noticeable response. At last the shuffling sound of hesitant footsteps came, followed by Giles’ hoarse, unsteady cry, “Buffy? Is that you?”

“Hardly,” Cordelia scoffed. “It’s me and Xander. Let us in so we can make sure you’re not in there hanging yourself or something.”

“Make sure I’m not...” Giles’ tone escalated rapidly from bewildered through incredulous to indigent to angry. “Cordelia!” he shouted through the door, “Go away!”

“Giles,” Xander implored, “could you please just let us in?We... lost track of time and now it’s way too late to go home and we need a certified vampire free place to crash.”

Giles opened the door. “I am not running a... hotel, Mr. Harris,” he nearly snarled in his snidest, most superior, brilliant-teacher-put-up-on-by-idiotic-student voice. He was doing his level best to project unassailable dignity, but his eyes were puffy, his more than usually lined face streaked with grime and tears, his hair dirty and disheveled. His belt,tie and jacket were missing and his shirt unbuttoned over a T-shirt that has seen cleaner days.

“Oh please,” said Cordelia, rolling her eyes, squeezing her body over the threshold through the narrow space between Giles and the door jam, ignoring the fact that she had to press her butt against the front of his pants to do it. Ignoring the fact that he clearly didn’t want her there. But she jumped back with a startled cry as his fist slammed into the wall an inch from her face, blocking her from further invading his home.

Giles grasped Cordelia roughly by the shoulders, his hands biting into her, bruising her soft flesh and flung her through the doorway into Xander’s arms. “Cordelia, Xander,” he crooned, between a purr and a hiss, refined yet menacing, “I will see you both on Monday. Please. Have a pleasant morning. SOMEWHERE ELSE!”

~~~~

“It was so worth it!” Angel declared, stroking his dick casually with one hand. Drusilla clapped her hands with delight, watching him. “The best part was the look on his face when he first realized she was already there, waiting for him. It was exactly how I pictured it when I was coming inside her corpse thinking about it. I can just _imagine_ the look on his face when he actually saw her. God, I can feel his cock shriveling. Or maybe not. A sight like that would turn some people on, humans even. That foamy cream pie, spread open, helpless. God, I can picture it that way,” Angel was stroking a little faster now, his breathing becoming heavy. Drusilla licked her lips and teeth lasciviously. “He’s standing there, right? His soul crushed, wishing he was dead, but his hard cock still wants to fuck her.”

“Fuck, you!” Spike declared bitterly. “We got burned out of our fucking home because of you, you bastard! My fucking flunkies are scattered. Most of them we’ll probably never see again! We are squatting in a sewer, slinking about in the piss and shit of the cattle we ought to be feasting upon. And that bitch is still no closer to being dead!”

“They’ll come to us,” Angel said confidently, addressing the only point he though deserved an answer. “Vampires are mostly just shorn sheeple. They’ll crave our boots on their necks. Probably start showing up about sunrise.”

“Drusilla! Drusilla! My love!” Spike pleaded.“In the name of Hell, open your eyes! He’s talking about us! He’s ruined everything. He doesn’t give a shit what happens to us! Come with me to the docks, to the train station, to the bloody bus depot, right now, tonight. Fuck this pissant town, fuck his fucking vendetta! Let’s go to Vienna! Kyoto! London! Paducah-fucking-Kentucky! We can do better than this, anywhere else in the world!”

Drusilla wore a look of innocent, breathless adoration, like a young girl basking in the affection of a doting father. “Show me,” she begged Angel, ignoring Spike altogether, as if he had not spoken, as if he didn’t exist, didn’t matter. “Do it to me, exactly like you did it to her. Hurt me all about it.”

“Might be hard to do in a buggering sewer,” Spike muttered, turning his wheels to roll away to some other part of the tunnels, in no mood to watch their reenactment. “No fucking feather beds and rose petals round here that I can see.”

Suddenly, Spike fell hard against the slimy concrete, his wheels yanked out from under him. Angel’s foot really was on his neck. “Stick around, my boy!” he snarled.

“Mummy and Daddy are talking,” Drusilla agreed delightedly, “and you haven’t been excused from the table.”

“Fuck you!” Spike repeated bitterly, barely getting enough air under Angel’s heel to vibrate his vocal cords. He was near tears of humiliation and all the angrier, all the more humiliated because of it.

Angel flashed a mean smile. “He’s insisting,” he said to Drusilla. “He said it more than once.”

“Yeah,” she agreed viciously. “I heard.”

“Oh, very funny!” Spike snarled. Angel and Dru were not laughing. Their smiles and the looks they exchanged were mischievous and predatory. There was longing in their eyes, anticipation, only in Angels case somewhat tempered with amusement and contempt.

“No!” Spike protested. “I told you. We’re not doing that anymore.” Angel pulled him to his feet. “It’s not fair! My legs are broken!” he was becoming frantic now. “We’re supposed to be _mates_!” he indicted. Angel did laugh at that, but Spike was in no mood for word play. “Bloody hell!” he cried, “You know what I mean. I took you in, you son-of-a-bitch! We’re family! From the same bloody bloodline! We share a common sodding bond! Show some Goddamned solidarity! Dru, please, I’m not joking. I don’t want this! I don’t want this! Please don’t let him!”

Drusilla clapped her hands and giggled with delight again. “Oh, I missed our little games!” she declared. “Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home!”

Spike screamed in pain, in fear, in rage as Angel held him on his feet and twisted his neck, breaking it in two places, with a terrifying crack. “First I killed her,” Angel explained casually. “Humans break so easily. Just snap! And done. Like Champagne popping. Faster than an orgasm. Makes me feel like a god. I never get tired of doing that.”

“I’ll rip you to pieces!” Spike wailed bitterly, lying on the floor unable to move. Some of the strands of his spinal cord had been broken and/or pinched severing connections, blocking signals. “Both of you!” He’d just been getting to the point that he could stand a little on wobbling legs like a newborn bloody fawn, to the point that he could take a shit by himself and wipe his own ass. Now it would be days, maybe weeks, before his spine healed enough to meaningfully connect his brain to his legs and bowels again. “Then I’ll set the pieces on fire, and douse you with water.” If he was lucky and the tiny tendrils of nerve tissue didn’t curl up and fail to find one another again. “Over and over again, til you beg me to let you die.”

“Oooo!” Drusilla squealed excitedly, “Promise?”Despite his dire circumstances, Spike heart quickened a little. As ever, he was in awe at the horror of her. She was all demon to the core. Compared to this dark creature, he was practically still a school boy. But he was still boiling with rage as he felt the vague sense of pressure that told him all eight inches of Angel’s cock was being shoved inside his paralyzed body without his invitation, against his express objections. _Because_ of his express objections.

Realizing his arms and hands still obeyed him, Spike reached inside his coat pocket for a cigarette, to calm his nerves. He was tempted to try to burn Angel to death with the lighter, but in this position, that would probably just end with Spike being set on fire, or at least having his skull bashed in. After a few puff’s he started to feel a little better, or at least, calmer. “Oh, is _that_ all you’re doing,” he heckled with a desperate bluff of nonchalance made easier by the lack of feeling in his lower body. “What’s that little thing, then? Your pinky finger? For a minute there I thought I was going to get fucked.”

 


	5. The Hung and the Restless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreams are meaningful... but you have to know what to see.

_It was pitch black in the sunken church, but Buffy knew exactly where she was. She knew the place by feel, by smell, by memory. She had died here long ago, had lain where she fell and rotted to nothing but this moldering consciousness. Suddenly, like a miracle, light broke upon her, blinding her in the opposite direction. Her consciousness was reduced to one white-hot point of searing pain. The pain blossomed into flesh, growing a head and trunk, breasts wobbling forth from it, perfect and fully formed, then arms and hands and fingernails. Seriously. Fingernails. Legs split and stretched and dangled from the soft flesh of her belly. A cunt was torn open, making her insides outsides. She fell to Earth. Naked. Bleeding. Alive._

~~~~

_Buffy was five years old, laying in her bed in the dark. She was happy, contented, but waiting for something. Like Christmas morning but calmer, less intense. There was a beautiful dark haired girl in her room, sixteen or seventeen. With green eyes. Like a cat. The cat pounced on her and bit her neck._

~~~~

_Buffy and Willow were joined, fused. They were one flesh, one person. One goddess. They shared a single cunt. It was vast and mossy green like the cunt of the Earth. Giles was fucking them. He was a god. He was a devil. He was the Beast. In his semen swam the sperm of Chaos. They opened to him as the furrow to the plow. He worked inside of them, in and again and in and again and in and again. His cock was a huge snake, fat and bulging. It had eyes. It had fangs. It had teeth. It struck. It bit. It killed. It destroyed the universe._

_The two goddesses were one no more. Each naked, bleeding pussy brought forth her own creation in pain and toil, ruled by her desire to be fucked evermore, eternally, in and again to bring him to the same estate, to spill his life into them. But there was no them anymore. There were two hers. Severed._

_Giles Spoke in a voice like thunder from Heaven. “I Choose Buffy! And She Shall Be Pure and Holy and Justified for She shall be the Mother of All Living and I Shall Always Fuck Her, But Not You!”_

_Then the seas boiled and the skies fell. Willow shrieked in the wilderness, howling in the waste and desert places of the Earth. She fell upon Buffy in her anguish and her rage and devoured the fruits of her womb. Willow and Buffy, Lilith and Eve were the First, each bringing forth sons and daughters, bearing fruit after her own kind. And the Earth was without form and void. The Sky was prohibited._

~~~~

_Buffy was on her back on the floor of the library. Giles was on top of her. Something was wrong. Besides the Godawful carpet burns she was getting on her ass. He was thrusting his cock insider her, but it wasn’t made of flesh. It was harder, completely inelastic. Sharp and splintery. With every thrust of his pelvis he was impaling her cunt, stabbing into the heart of her with a wooden stake. He was fucking her to death. She wanted to scream, to beg him to stop, but her throat was welded shut._

_Weeping silently for the life that was ebbing from her, she tried to push him off, but he was too strong, too heavy. Either he didn’t notice her pain, her fear, her distress, or he didn’t care. Soon he would come death inside of her. Frantically, gathering the last of her strength, she clawed at his face. It came off in her hands to reveal the enraged demonic visage of Angelus. He sank his fangs into her throat. Her neck snapped with a wet crack of finality. She lay lifeless, motionless beneath him, no longer feeling his cold flesh violating her, though she knew it was there. Roses, just as dead, just as broken, were strewn over and around the bed._

~~~~

_Willow was a tree in bloom, her branches spread, her roots tangled. Buffy and Giles were climbing her. They played among her branches in joyful, innocent nakedness. Soon she would bear fruit. Soon she would bear knowledge._

~~~~

_Buffy lay naked, spreadeagled on the altar, nailed down at the palms and ankles. Giles held his sword aloft. “It’s been done this way for a dozen centuries,” he explained, his tone only mildly apologetic. “I’m a_ _Watcher, you see. It’s in the blood, in the family.” He was holding her in his arms. They were both crying. He brushed her long dark hair back from her green eyes so that she could watch the universe slowly, infinitely receding._

_She sang, and her voice like a siren called the boy from his bed just as he had innocently, unknowingly called her back to this fateful place, this trap. He stood in the doorway, wide eyed with love and horror. She was seeing him for the first time in over four years. He was beautiful; a sight worth dying for. “Hush, Child,” her Watcher said, “Go back to bed, it’s alright.”_

“ _It’s not alright!” Giles shouted, no longer a child, a man now. “Damn it, it is not alright!_

~~~~

 _Willow was on top this time, riding Giles like a Stallion, his fat cock rubbing her pussy raw, making her bleed, but no more than she wanted to. Her face was covered in Buffy’s cunt, she was drowning in it. “I_ love _this part!” she cried with wicked relish._

_Xander grinned down at her just as wickedly. “You love all the parts,” he reminded her._

~~~~

_The church was above ground, brightly lit, clean and in good repair. Buffy recognized it anyway. Once again she was dressed in white. Everyone loved her dress._

_Her father, Hank Summers, was at her side, smiling and laughing, talking on his cell phone. Giles stood at the front of the church, next to the altar, beaming back down the aisle at her. His intense, smoldering eyes, contrasted with his warm easy smile in a way that only she seemed to be able to see, making her naked, but only to him. The music started and at last she began walking towards her destiny._

_But then the bundle of flowers in her arms began to cry. Though she did everything she could to sooth the infant, it kept right on wailing loudly, all the way up the aisle. There was a murmur of disapproval from absolutely everyone as she tugged one swollen breast from her bodice and tried franticly to interest her disdainful child in suckling. Even Spike and Drusilla were shaking their heads. Jenny Calendar looked absolutely pissed in that hard, quiet Gypsy-eyes-boring-into-your-head sort of way. Giles put his finger to his lips, looking particularly disappointed in her though somehow without any lessening of desire. Hank apologized to everyone on his conference call for his daughter’s rudeness, explaining that he hoped at least he’d found a way to cure her embarrassing promiscuity if none of her other numerous faults._

“ _Honestly,” Buffy heard Mrs. Harris saying to her son in a loud stage whisper, “I don’t know what you ever saw in that slut.”_

“ _Well that’s no secret!” Her husband shouted back drunkenly, making the universal hand gesture for ‘huge tits.’_

“ _I like my girls a little bit older, thanks,” Xander replied, his hands all over Joyce, licking and nibbling her neck and ear._

“ _Experience is the key to success. In bed,” she recited in cheerful agreement._

_At last, they reached the front of the church._

_The flowers stopped crying when she handed them to Cordelia. “Oh please!” the queen bitch said disdainfully, turning her back to the sanctuary and tossing the bouquet over her shoulder. Willow blushed and beamed as it landed in her arms. “I don’t know,” said Oz skeptically, “I’ve never really seen rats that color before.” But Amy assured her that they were beautiful. She kissed Willow long and passionately. As they groped and undressed one another Oz shrugged nonchalantly, became a large white wolf and bounded away._

_Meanwhile, Giles took Buffy’s right hand in both of his. He lifted it to his lips and gave it a gentle kiss that sent shivers through every nerve in her body, like phantom hands caressing and stroking her inside and out, leaving every inch of her skin, every particle of the lining of her mouth and throat and cunt hungry for his warm, solid physical touch. Buffy gasped, her knees giving way. Giles and Hank nodded the terms of some unspoken agreement. Each keeping a firm grip on one hand and arm, they supported her upright to the altar and gently laid her down on it._

_Hank handed Giles a Gothic looking sword, the kind where the hilt makes a giant cross. Then he ripped the front of Buffy’s dress open and stared down at her exposed body with detached appreciation as Giles held the sword aloft, poised above her breast. “It’s been done this way for a dozen centuries,” Giles explained. His tone was only mildly apologetic._

~~~~

Giles stared at his living room ceiling, waiting for the light that must surely begin to seep through his windows at any moment. It could never have been darker than this. So where was dawn? All night he had been unable to force his eyes closed. It hardly mattered. His eyes weren’t the problem. His mind was filled, stuffed, violated, torn apart by images, memories and unbidden speculations; visual, visceral, auditory, olfactory. He could taste Buffy on his lips, could smell her steaming cunt, could feel it opening to pull him in. His cock twitched, but he was in no real danger of becoming fully aroused. In his minds ear, he could still hear Jenny screaming, could see her empty eyes staring blindly into eternity. His brain was raped again and again by the repulsive image of Angelus, laughing with demonic joy, pulling his hard, dripping cock from Buffy’s pussy and shoving it into Jenny’s dead body.

That was not the only reason he was ill with remorse, disgusted with himself for having fucked her. Sod her youth. Bugger the State of California. Fuck the indignity of sharing anything with Angelus. She was the Slayer! He was her Watcher. He had failed in his duty, failed to be worthy of his destiny, of his family name, even such as it was, even to the extent he had a claim to it. Again.

Other images, other memories assaulted him. Other lovers he had buried. Other people he had fucked. Other foul deeds he had done, unworthy of an honorable man. He thought of Randal, possessed, enraged, shrieking in pain and inhuman terror as the ax fell; shrieking in pain and inhuman delight at the only slightly gentler strokes of Ripper’s cock up his ass the day before. He thought of Charles, whom he had violated not lustfully with his penis but brutally, self-righteously with a ten inch hunting knife, shoving it between his ribs until his life poured forth and death came. On the _excuse_ that he must dutifully serve the Council, as was his destiny.

Giles got up and poured himself another drink. Desperate to be numbed. Desperate for sleep that he could not have, to which, in fact he did not dare surrender. ‘For in that sleep, what dreams may come?’

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [In Firefly Order](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1706807) by [MyEvilTwin (ProtoNeoRomantic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtoNeoRomantic/pseuds/MyEvilTwin)




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